The Italian Summer

The piazza is the center of all excitement in this small town — I am joined by the same old men each morning. They sit on the deck watching a few cars pass. I keep watch for anyone my age. Time has stopped. It is warm, comforting, and welcoming, and even in their stillness, everyone exudes a sense of belonging.

On my walk home I pass by a nonna praying on a street corners dedicated to some saint, she turns and says “bonguirno.” Something about her praying in this openness, it is vulnerable and made me open my heart. I have no desire to distract myself with headphones music or a phone call. I want to be here.

By the mare, Italy comes alive with its own unique rhythm. The spiaggia is quite silent. By the grass the children play football. An old man joins them tanned and in a bright green neon underwear suit. I cheer them on “Forza! Dai! Bravo!” After lunch gelato takes center stage: CUCCIOLONE. In the ports of Sardinia in night the air hums with the sounds of musica italiana—canzone d’amore, pop, or the classics.

The Cruciverba a staple of daily life for many Italians.

The garden's bounty was an abundance of tomatoes, the heart of the Mediterranean diet. We savored them with fresh mozzarella, prosciutto, and a drizzle of Nonna Elisabetta’s olive oil followed by melon.

Fresh pasta delivered from the neighboring Nonna in the village.

Family together, always.